


All Things Considered

by bird_by_snow



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bird_by_snow/pseuds/bird_by_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were just souvenirs--proof that John Bender existed, had walked on this earth, and had interacted with other people. Nothing in the box actually meant anything to him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story focuses on John and the events leading up to his Saturday in detention, which means that it's not exactly fluffy, and parts of it do get a little dark. Basically, it's rated M for a good reason, and if you're at all bothered by sex, foul language, drugs, or talk of suicide, you might want to read something else.

Winter by its very nature was unpleasant. Doubly so in Chicago. It was cold _and_ it was windy. It was absolutely nothing that a seventeen year old should want to be exposed to for hours at a time. Unless, of course, he didn't have a choice. And John liked to tell himself that he didn't have a choice, but the truth was that he did.

If he wanted to, he could hang out at the mall, or sneak into the movie theater, or he could just go home. But he didn't go to any of those places. Instead, he stayed huddled up against the east wall of the field house, coat pulled tightly around him, cursing bitterly every time the wind shifted direction. The frigid air blew right through him, and he could feel it deep within his bones. He was pretty sure that frostbite was a major possibility. His fingers were already numb and stiff, it probably wouldn't be much longer until they turned black and fell off.

He forced himself to tough it out, waiting until the sun dropped below the horizon and finally took his last shred of tolerance for the cold along with it before he considered leaving. The evening was still early, but it was time to move on. He couldn't go home, at least not directly, but he _could_ spend the last of the twenty bucks he'd borrowed from his older brother on fast food and warm up in the McDonald's on the way.

John stood up slowly, stiffened legs protesting. The wind whipped his hair around and stung his face as he walked away from the protection of the building. The walk warmed him some, but he was glad when he finally reached the restaurant and got out of the cold.

When it was his turn at the counter, he ordered his standard fare: a burger, fries, and a Coke. The cashier that waited on him wasn't bad looking. Her brown hair was pulled back and held neatly in place with a pink banana clip. Not a strand was out of place.

He wanted to mess it up.

John nursed his meal for as long as humanly possible—he had loitering down to a fine art. He made two additional trips to the counter, first ordering another cheeseburger, and then a hot apple pie. As long as he continued to buy something, no one cared how long he sat there.

The cashier blatantly flirted with him as he made his final purchase, and John was pretty sure that she was under the impression that the only reason he'd stuck around so long was because of her. She kept giving him sideways glances in between customers, and normally he didn't like it when people watched him, but he made an exception for her. The next time he caught her looking, he smiled back. She grinned, and John knew how the game would eventually end.

As he was finishing his last bite of pie, he heard the cashier loudly announce to a co-worker that she was going out for her smoke break before disappearing into the back. That was his cue. John crumpled up the apple pie wrapper and exited the restaurant, venturing back out into the cold. Only this time it wasn't quite as reluctantly.

He rounded the building and found the cashier leaned up against the brick wall, cigarette between her lips. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

"Can I bum a smoke?" he asked.

The cashier nodded and dug into her coat pocket. When she found her cigarettes, she pulled out the pack and offered it to him.

But instead of taking it, John reached over and carefully pulled the already lit cigarette out of the girl's mouth. It was a move that he vaguely remembered seeing on TV or something, and it was guaranteed to make her want him.

"Thanks, Sweets," he said, never breaking eye contact with her as he placed the cigarette between his own lips and took a drag.

The cashier regarded him quietly as he smoked her cigarette, and then finally came to a decision. "I've got ten minutes."

Girls were so predictable.

He dropped the finished cigarette to the pavement and blew his last lungful of smoke up into the night sky. "I only need five."

 

***

When John finally made it home that night, he was disappointed to find his brother's car still in the driveway. Mark worked evenings and nights at the gas station so he should've already left, but his concept of time varied greatly depending on the amount of chemicals in his bloodstream. If it wasn't for the fact that he supplied his boss with a steady supply of drugs, John was sure that Mark would've been fired ages ago. As it was, seven months was the longest Mark had ever managed to maintain the appearance of a job.

John went around back and quietly opened the kitchen door. He was hoping to be able to make it to his bedroom unnoticed. The sound of the TV covered his footsteps, so he figured his odds were good. He risked a look into the living room as he crept past the doorway. His old man was asleep in his chair, empty beer cans piled on the table next to him, and his step-mom was watching the shopping channel, telephone in hand.

Typical.

His brother, however, was not asleep, or passed out, or too high to get off the floor—the three most common ways to find him. No, Mark had unfortunately just stepped out of his bedroom, and when he saw John in the hallway, he grabbed his coat by the lapels and shoved him hard against the wall.

"Give me back my money, fag, or I swear to god I will bury your fucking head in this fucking wall!"

"Bite me," John calmly replied.

"Man, right now I am so tempted, but who knows what kind of diseases you have. Keep fucking those skanks and your dick is going to rot off."

"At least mine still works. You're just jealous 'cuz you haven't gotten any in, what, months?" John shot back with a smug smile.

"Dream on, fucktard. Now, where's my goddamn money?"

John donned his best puzzled face and asked, "Would that be the money that you got from selling my stereo, or the money that you took from Linda's purse?"

Mark shoved him again. "Always gotta be a fuckin' smart-ass, don't you, Johnny?" He pulled John's wallet out of his pocket by the chain and opened it up, frowning when he didn't find any money. "Did you buy some pills at school or something? If you give them to me, I might forgive you."

Annoyed, and probably a little desperate, Mark patted John down, but only managed to find the pack of cigarettes that John had bought on the way to school that morning.

"You don't want those. They're bad for your health," John helpfully informed him.

Mark gave John one last slam against the wall. "I'm taking these as a down payment. You owe me, shithead." He let John go and continued on his way.

"Yeah, I owe _you_ ," John muttered sarcastically as he walked into his bedroom.

He closed the door behind him and stood with his ear against it for a few minutes, just to make sure that Mark wasn't going to come back and make good on his threat to put him through the wall. When he heard the front door open and a car start, John figured that he was in the clear.

He shrugged off his coat and threw it in the general direction of his closet. He didn't look to see if it made it or not. Then he kicked off his boots, not particularly caring where they landed either. He was tired, but there was one last thing that he had to do before he could go to sleep.

John knelt down on the floor and felt around for the old, beat-up shoebox that he kept hidden under his bed. When he found it, he pulled it out and removed the lid. He took a pink hair clip out of the front pocket of his jeans, and dropped it into the box, replacing the lid when he was done.

He turned off the lights, climbed into bed, and as he tried to fall asleep, he let his mind wander. Some people counted sheep to help them drift off, but John found it relaxing to contemplate all the ways that he could end his life.

Overdose on drugs.

He knew where Mark bought the hard stuff. Hell, if he wanted to spend three minutes searching, he could probably figure out where Mark _kept_ the hard stuff. It was a classic way to go—out like a rock star—but on second thought, it lacked the kind of visual impact he was going for.

A razor blade to both wrists.

He considered that one for a few minutes. It would be messy, which made it appealing, but it would almost certainly be painful. He wasn't sure he'd actually be able to pull it off successfully.

What else? He rolled over onto his side and pulled the blanket tighter around him. It was always cold in his room, even with long sleeves on. Still, it beat being outside.

Hypothermia.

Yeah, that would be a good way to go. He'd walk out to the middle of the football field, lie down on the grass and just let the falling snow cover him, slowly freezing him to death in the process. When spring came, the snow would thaw and his freezer-burned corpse would be left there, on the 50-yard line, for the whole school to see. It would be grotesque and potentially traumatizing to anyone who saw it. He would become a legend. John liked the thought of that.


	2. Part 2

The good thing about going to a school in a fairly affluent suburb was that someone's parents were always going off to Europe or some tropical locale, and leaving their teenager at home with an envelope full of cash for food and emergencies. What actually constituted as an 'emergency', however, was subject to interpretation, and meant that on any given weekend, there was a good chance of a party being thrown somewhere in Shermer. They were never advertised of course, at least not to just anyone, but John wasn't just _anyone,_ and invitations appeared in his locker all the time.

That was how, on Saturday night, he found himself waiting outside another party, mixed in rather incongruently with the wealthiest and most popular students from the area's two high schools. Stumpy, or whatever his equally retarded name was, was famous for throwing wild parties every time his parents left him alone for more than a few days. It seemed like every month John was passed another note with the address of his parents' mansion on it. He'd been there three times already since the start of the school year. Not that he minded. The place _did_ have a pretty bitchin' indoor swimming pool after all.

When he finally got up to the front door, the linebacker who was playing bouncer gave him the nod, and John slipped effortlessly into a world that only tolerated his presence for one night a week. He was immediately greeted by one of his regulars—a tremendous asshole who thought that having money gave him a free pass to say and do whatever he wanted. In gym class, he was usually the one leading the taunts directed at those whom he'd deemed 'lower class', which included practically everybody. Tonight though, John was his best friend.

"There's my man!" the asshole exclaimed, handing him a red plastic cup filled with beer. "I was just telling Cameron that I hadn't seen you yet. Now this party can get fucking started!" He attempted to shout across the room to get his friend's attention, but the music drowned him out. "Fuck it. You're going to be here for awhile, right?"

John nodded.

"Excellent. Listen, I'm going to go get Cameron and a couple of the other guys, so have something to eat, grab another beer, and don't go anywhere until we do business, okay?"

"I'll come find you. Don't worry," John assured him.

"You're the best!"

_And you're a fucking hypocrite_ , he wanted to reply. But he just smiled and took a sip from his beer instead.

While Richie Rich went after his friend, John surveyed the room for prospects. Unlike his fellow classmates who were busy living it up, he was at the party to work. That didn't mean that he couldn't try to fit in a little pleasure on the side, however.

The first girl that caught his attention was a redhead sitting on one of the sofas. She was talking to her friends, and he liked the way that her eyes lit up when she smiled. Her pale skin was just begging to be marked by his bruising kisses, and he could imagine her looking flushed as she writhed in ecstasy on the bed underneath him. She looked pristine though, and he didn't do virgins. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't cruel.

Instead, he made his move on a blonde that stumbled past him in her too-high heels. He could tell that she was already damaged, and it wouldn't take much to convince her to make out with him. Her short skirt, low-cut top, and Madonna-style teased hair practically broadcasted her need for attention. He fed her some bullshit line about how she was the one he'd been waiting for, and pulled her into a dark corner.

After a few minutes of making out with her, he was bored. He slipped his hand under her shirt and felt her up over the bra, just to switch things up a little, but it didn't do much for him. The blonde, however, seemed impressed by his initiative.

"Oh my god, you don't kiss anything like Bryce or Cory," she marveled, once she'd caught her breath.

He gave her stiff nipple a light pinch through the satin and then removed his hand from under her shirt. "Want to know a secret?" he asked.

She nodded slowly, like she was in a daze, and he leaned in closer so that he could whisper into her ear. "I snuck in tonight." It didn't matter that it wasn't true, it only mattered that it sounded good. "I don't even live on this side of town." That _was_ the truth, however, and usually the clincher.

The blonde's glossy pink lips curled into a predictable smile. "Meet me upstairs in like, five minutes, and you are going to get _so_ lucky. I just have to tell Lisa that she's on her own for the rest of the night."

Easy. _So_. _Fucking_. _Easy_.

He caught her arm as she turned to leave, and admired the thirty or so black rubber bracelets adorning it. "Can I have one?" he asked.

"Why?"

"To remember you by," he replied, giving her his most charming smile.

She giggled and slid one of the bracelets down her hand, then went off to find her friend.

John didn't stand around, or go upstairs. If he wanted to, he could pick up ninety-percent of the girls at the party. But that knowledge no longer gave him the same thrill it once had. Now, getting girls at parties, even the ones that should have been out of his league, was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Just once, he wanted to meet someone different—someone who was a challenge, but who was worth the effort. Someone who would call him on his bullshit, but at the end of the day would still talk to him because she liked him anyway.

Just once, he wanted to meet someone who wanted _him_.

***

John returned home around 2 o'clock the next morning, frustrated. Going to the party hadn't satisfied him in any of the ways that mattered. He tossed the bracelet from the blonde into the battered shoebox. It landed near a purple barrette, and a button that he'd accidentally torn off the shirt of a girl he'd made out with in the backseat of Mark's car. He stared down at his collection for a moment, and then shoved the box back under his bed and out of sight.

Next, he dug a sizable wad of cash out of his pocket and counted it. He supposed that the evening hadn't been a _complete_ bust. Profitable, yet boring, was _still_ profitable after all. He slipped the ten- and twenty-dollar bills between the pages of his math textbook and then buried the whole thing under a pile of dirty laundry on the floor.

Done taking care of business for the night, he collapsed into bed. He was still pretty buzzed from the party, so as he drifted off, only one thought came to mind.

Throw himself in front of the 'L'.

It certainly had potential. His entrails would be all over the train tracks, and his blood would probably rain down on the street below. People would run away screaming. He'd definitely make the newspaper if that happened. Probably even the front page. He pictured the headline with a smile, ' _Teenager Offs Himself. Commuters Subjected to Gruesome Display of Guts_ '.


	3. Part 3

The local mall was something of a port in the storm for John, and on most days he liked being there. Not only was it a great place to kill time when the weather was too hot or too cold, but there were always a lot of people around. It was never so quiet that he was alone with his thoughts. Plus, if he wanted some company, all he had to do was hang out on a bench by a busy store, tuck an unlit cigarette between his lips, and act casual. The girls always came to him. He was a regular James fuckin' Dean.

On the other hand, John often despised the mall for the very same reasons that he liked it. Sometimes, it felt like it was too loud and filled with too many people. If it bothered him, he would usually leave and go to the park or walk down to the lake shore. But during the winter, when the wind-chill was unbearable, that wasn't an option, and there were nights that John resented the fact that the mall was the only place that he could go.

Because sometimes, he just wanted the world to leave him the hell alone.

"John!"

He prayed silently that the girl who had shouted his name was actually trying to get some other guy's attention. He had a pretty common name. Besides, with most girls he never got to the exchange name stage, so it was extremely unlikely that the chick would be calling _him_. Without even bothering to stop and check, he just kept walking.

"John!" she called again, this time much closer.

He still didn't turn around.

Suddenly, a dark-haired girl with pale blue eyes appeared in front of him. She was slightly out of breath, but smiling triumphantly. "Hi!"

Damn it. He knew her. She worked at the Orange Julius, and had flirted with him last month. He kept his greeting non-committal. "Hey."

"Remember me?" she teased.

Jan? June? Jen? That may have been it. She had been wearing a purple barrette in her hair, he remembered _that_. "How could I forget?"

He had made out with her by the entrance to Sears because she'd wanted her ex-boyfriend to be jealous. Her ex-boyfriend hadn't cared though, not even when she had very publicly groped John in front of him. The mall-cop hadn't been too happy about their little display, however.

"I'm just getting off work, do want to hang out?"

"Here? Or somewhere else?" He wasn't sure what she had in mind, but he didn't feel like having to sit through another lecture about the dangers of unprotected sex, and why the mall was an inappropriate place to engage in such activities.

"Actually, I was thinking that maybe we could go find an empty fitting room, and then you could help me work off some of my tension. Unless…you have other plans?"

He shrugged. "Not really."

John let her lead the way, and he soon found himself walking through The Limited. It was a store that under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been caught dead in. Jen seemed right at home, however, and she made a big show of taking items off the racks as they passed them on their way to the back of the store. John suspected that it was only for the benefit of keeping up appearances, though, because it looked as though they were being closely watched by a salesgirl who was folding a pile of sweaters.

Jen greeted her. "Hi, Mary Ann. This is John," she boasted, clinging possessively onto his arm.

John tried to look the part of the uninterested bad boy, which turned out to not be very hard.

"He's going to give me his opinion on these," Jen told her, holding up the clothes she had draped over her other arm.

"Good for you?" Mary Ann replied, apparently not sure why exactly she was supposed to care.

"I certainly hope so."

Jen pulled him into the first unoccupied fitting room that they came to, and promptly dumped the clothes that she'd selected onto the floor. Then she grabbed a hold of him and gave him an eager kiss. John responded rough and hard, digging one hand into her hair and yanking her closer to him with the other.

He was never gentle.

She took his hand from her hip and guided it down the front of her jeans. "You've gotta help me, John. I need your help _sooo_ bad," she crooned, sounding just like a bad porn-star, and it finally dawned on him that she was using him.

Not that he cared, but he really should've seen it coming. He used girls, and they used him. That was just the way the world worked. He didn't actually believe that he was going to find what he was looking for anyway, whatever it was. He was pretty sure that being knuckle-deep in a girl he barely knew was the best that he could hope for. John curled his fingers and got a moan in response.

Yeah, _he_ was the one that they all used to make their ex-boyfriends, or their parents, or their enemies jealous. _He_ was the one that scratched the itch that they couldn't quite reach. _He_ was the one they fucking came to. _Him_.

And then he tossed them aside.

Jen shuddered against him, but he brought her off one more time, just to prove that he could, before slipping his hand out of her pants and wiping his fingers off on his jeans.

"Damn," she sighed contently. "I really needed that." And then with a sexy smirk, she unzipped his fly and got down on her knees in front of him.

John leaned back against the wall of the fitting room and closed his eyes so that he could focus on just the feel of her lips moving up and down. His fingers clawed at the wall as he released into her mouth, and he rewarded her efforts with a low groan.

If getting a blowjob in the back of a store was all that he had to look forward to, maybe he could learn to live with that. There were certainly worse things in life.

Jen knocked over her purse as she started to stand up, and an envelope of photos spilled out onto the floor. "I just picked these up before my shift," she explained, retrieving the scattered pictures. They looked like her senior portraits.

John watched her as he zipped himself back up. "Can I have one?"

"Totally. I'll even do you one better," she said, taking a pen out of her purse. She wrote something on the back of a wallet-sized portrait and then handed it to him.

"Thanks." He tucked it into his pocket. Another one for the collection.

Jen gathered the last of her belongings and then pulled the fitting room door open. "C'mon, there's one more thing I've gotta do."

John had to step over the large pile of unwanted clothes on his way out in order to avoid tripping.

"A present for Mary Ann," Jen said, grinning proudly. "And it's better than she deserves. That bitch stole my boyfriend. I should've jerked you off all over the wall. Or maybe onto the cashmere."

They wandered back through the store, purposely walking past Mary Ann, who had an amusingly scandalized look on her face.

Jen pretended not to notice. She just pointed toward the fitting rooms and said in a haughty tone, "There's a mess in there that you might want to clean up."

John chuckled, and Mary Ann looked like she was going to murder them both. They left the store in a hurry in case she decided to call security.

"That was fun," Jen said once they were a safe distance away.

"Yeah." A blowjob and a laugh wasn't bad for a minimal amount of effort, but he wondered if he should go for the hat-trick and try to charm her into buying him a slice of pizza as well. He _was_ getting pretty hungry. "So, listen, I was thinking—"

Jen looked down at her watch. "Shit! I have to go pick up my little sister from her Girl Scout meeting. We'll hook up again though, right? I'm here every night this week."

"Uh—"

"See you later!"

As he watched her rush off, he thought that it was probably for the best that he hadn't had the chance to ask about food. Whatever it was that they had between them was already becoming a regular occurrence. He'd made it a rule to never hook up with a girl more than twice, and twice was pushing it. He was just going to have to find another place to spend his evenings until she forgot about him.

***

When John got home that night, he made himself a bologna sandwich. It wasn't anything fancy, but it was free, and it would stave off his hunger. He could hear his father and Mark arguing in the living room, but it was a testament to how normal of an occurrence it was that he had tuned most of it out. John desperately hoped that they weren't planning to bring the fight into the kitchen. He just wanted to eat in peace.

"—worthless, lazy piece of shit!"

"I said I'd do it tomorrow, so why don't you do us all a favor, old man, and fuck off!"

The one and only thing that John admired about his brother was that he had the balls to yell back at their father. And somehow, he always got away with it.

The kitchen door swung open, and John froze as Mark entered, unsure if he was the lesser of two evils.

Luckily, the argument didn't seem to have affected Mark's mood at all. "Have you been in here the whole time?" he asked conversationally.

"Pretty much."

Mark grinned. "You know, no one would even fucking notice if you didn't come home."

John didn't doubt that. One summer, he'd decided to see how long he could go without interacting with any of his family members. It was mostly out of a desire for self-preservation, but he also wanted to see if anyone would care.

He had stayed with friends for a while, until they got sick of him, and he'd had to go back home. After that, he'd slept in the backyard for a few more nights, sneaking back into the house only when he knew no one was around. In total, he'd gone almost four weeks, before he'd come to the conclusion it was pointless. His family was never going to notice, and it was stupid to spend his nights being uncomfortable when he could be sleeping in his own bed.

No one said anything about his absence until one of them saw all of the garbage that had piled up outside the back door because he had stopped taking it down to the street. His father had barged into his room soon after his return and confronted him about it. Then John _really_ regretted his experiment.

"Seriously, dickweed," Mark continued, interrupting John's trip down memory lane, "You could jump off a fucking bridge and no one would care." He grabbed the sandwich out of John's hand.

John really wanted to punch his brother, and as he watched him eat his supper, he wondered why he was being such a coward.

Mark waved the last of the sandwich in front of John before popping it into his mouth. "Thanks for the snack, Johnny," he said with his mouth half-full.

John bowed sarcastically. "I live to serve, _Marky_."

Mark paused on his way out the door and spun around. "What the fuck did you just call me?"

"You heard me. It's a term of endearment," John cooed, and he watched with fascination as the expression on Mark's face darkened. After all the times that he'd called his brother 'Marky', John thought that he probably should've learned that it would only lead to pain. But then, John was an idiot who had never learned to keep his mouth shut.

Or _maybe_ , he thought, as Mark wrestled him to the ground, he actually _liked_ it. God, he really _was_ messed up. He laughed the whole time Mark was pounding on him.

Mark shoved John's head against the floor before getting up. "I hope one day your goddamned mouth gets you killed," he spat.

Yeah, him too.

After his brother left, John picked himself up off the floor and grabbed two beers out of the fridge before heading off to his room. A liquid supper it was, then. At least he'd finally have some peace and quiet.

As he sat on his bed and drank the first beer, he opened his wallet and considered where to put Jen. The plastic sleeves already held the following items: his driver's license, his social security card, the school ID of the first girl to have sex with him (a friend's older sister), and seven photos of girls, who over the years he had scammed, begged, fucked, fingered, or otherwise cajoled into giving him a picture.

He flipped Jen's picture over and saw that on the back she'd written her phone number along with the caption, 'Give me a call, love Lori'. It was something that he had no intention of doing. If he called her, she'd get the wrong impression, and complications arose when girls became attached. Still, it was always good to keep his options open. He removed the picture from the last slot in his wallet, and filed Lori-not-Jen in its place.

The old picture that he had removed was folded in half to show a girl with blonde hair and green eyes. He'd met her at a college party that he and some friends had crashed—back when he still needed to crash parties. The house where it had been held belonged to her sorority or something. She'd taken him up to her bedroom, promised him a night of wild sex, and then had passed out drunk before she'd even got her shirt off.

John hadn't cared though, and he'd spent the next half-hour going through her room, looking at her things. There had been so much out in the open that he could've stolen, jewelry, money, a walkman, but he had been looking for something better. Something more memorable. And he'd finally found it in her top dresser drawer.

John unfolded the photograph in his hand. The girl's ex-boyfriend was on the other half. He looked like a typical all-American college guy, but he also had a fake mustache, beard, and several disfiguring scars drawn all over his face in black Sharpie. At the time, the girl's petty vindictiveness had made John laugh, but he didn't feel anything anymore when he looked at the picture, so he tossed it into his shoebox along with the other stolen memories.

John leaned back against his headboard and cracked open the second beer. He wondered what the green-eyed girl would think, or what any of them would think for that matter, if they knew what kind of darkness he had inside him.

Jump off a bridge.

He actually considered Mark's suggestion for a while. Clearly there were two options there. He could jump into the river, or jump off an overpass and hit the expressway. Drowning wasn't exactly his idea of a good time, but splatting against the pavement might not be too bad. The only problem with the plan was that it would please his brother too much.

Sit in the garage with the car running.

Offing himself in the family vehicle _would_ be the ultimate 'fuck you' to all concerned. Too bad it would never work. John was sure that if he tried, his father would notice, open the door, and then yell at him for wasting gas. Although, maybe if he made him mad enough, his old man would kill him.

He'd have to work on that one.


	4. Part 4

John came home from school later that week to find his bedroom door wide open and Mark inside, lying on the floor. From what he could see scattered around him, it was pretty obvious that Mark had just shot up. John knew that his brother had moved on to the stronger stuff a while ago, but he had no idea that he'd started using needles. It was a surprisingly startling discovery.

Mark looked up at John and seemed confused as to why he was there. "Don't you knock?"

John stared back down at his brother. "You're in _my_ room, retard."

Mark smiled. "Yeah, I couldn't find my lighter," he said, as if that explained everything. Then his eyes closed.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." John walked over and nudged his brother with the toe of his boot. There was no response, so he kicked him harder. Mark mumbled something unintelligible, but still didn't move. It looked like if John wanted his brother out of his room, he was going to have to make it happen all by himself.

He sighed in resignation and picked up the paraphernalia that was strewn across his floor. He tossed his lighter back onto his nightstand, and for a brief moment considered keeping the drugs too. It was tempting, but John stopped just short of putting the little wax bag in to his pocket. He wasn't sure that he wanted to start down that path, as he could clearly see where it led.

His brother _did_ seem happy though.

Grabbing a hold of Mark's wrists, John dragged him toward the door. He got about two feet before deciding that it was too much effort, and just left Mark where he was until he was conscious enough to move under his own power. Then he closed the door to his room, and went to the kitchen to grab something to eat.

After pouring himself a bowl of Corn Pops, John sat down on the living room couch and turned on the television. Back before Linda had convinced his father to get cable, there was never anything on that was worth watching when he got home from school. But now, he could watch all the MTV he wanted for two gloriously uninterrupted hours every afternoon while the others were still at work. Even Mark wouldn't make him change the channel if he happened to wander into the room and a music video was playing. If his step-mom wasn't such an uncaring bitch, John might've considered thanking her for improving his TV viewing experience.

Unfortunately, John's interruption-free afternoon didn't stay uninterrupted for very long. Barely ten minutes after he'd sat down, and as Billy Idol was singing about it being a nice day for a white wedding, there was a knock at the front door. John set his bowl down and peered out the window. Mark's friend Ben was standing on the porch, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the man riding his bicycle on the sidewalk. Ben was always paranoid that he was being watched.

John pulled the door open. "What's up?"

"Not much. Is Mark around?"

John ran his hand through his hair. "Uh, well, he's here, but I don't think he'll be doing much conversing any time soon."

Ben frowned. "He fucking went down to the warehouse without me, didn't he?"

"The 'warehouse'? What happened to the shack?" he asked. The shack was a run-down building near the abandoned steel factory. John had been there a few times with Mark and Ben, but he hadn't ever actually gone in. They'd made him stay in the car.

"It's still there, we just wanted a change of scenery," Ben said dismissively. "So, do you know if he went?"

Judging by what John had picked up off his bedroom floor? "It's a distinct possibility."

"Well shit, I was looking forward to doing a little shopping." He turned to leave, but stopped. "Did you, uh, did you manage to sell that weed for me?"

"Yeah, last weekend. You want your money now?"

Ben nodded, then checked the street in both directions before telling John that he had more weed in his car. "Do you think you can move it by the end of next week?"

"Well, that depends," John said. "Can I get fifty percent of the profit this time?"

Ben laughed. "Nice try, but it's still thirty-five, same as always."

"Fine, go get it," he told him. "I'll see what I can do." Thirty-five percent was better than nothing, and it was certainly more than he could make earning minimum wage for the same amount of hours. It was actually a pretty sweet deal. As long as he didn't get caught.

***

When the bell rang at the end of the lunch period on Friday, John decided not to return to class. It had been slightly warmer that week, which meant that he could stay outside under the bleachers for much longer before his nuts were in danger of freezing off. It wasn't like anyone would miss him anyway.

He didn't know what the hell the point of his shitty life was. Every day it was the same. Go to school, avoid Vernon. Leave school, avoid home. Go home, avoid family. It was stressful to juggle all that avoidance, and it really sucked when he slipped up.

Sure, he could call one of the wallet girls to take the edge off; a couple of them might be willing to meet up with him. Or, he could go looking for a new catch. There was always someone that he could convince to make out with him, or to let him fuck in some secluded area. He excelled at being whatever they wanted—a tool for revenge, a rebound, a temporary easement of pain, an ego boost, an image boost. But they were never what _he_ wanted.

He took out his knife and flicked the blade open. It was sharp—he always made sure to keep it sharp—and held it hard against the flesh of his wrist. The pressure was reassuring. At least he could still feel something. If he pushed any harder he'd draw blood.

Bleeding out under the bleachers would be a decent way to go. Maybe he'd come back as a ghost and haunt the school. Fifty years from now, students in hushed voices would tell the tale of John Bender in the hallways, and freshmen would be made to seek out his spirit in hazing rituals. All in all, it had the potential to be a pretty kick-ass afterlife.

But the distant sound of familiar voices brought John out of his fantasy. He folded up his knife and slipped it back in to his pocket. A glance down at his wrist revealed that the thin imprint from the blade was already fading. It was almost a shame.

As the voices rapidly approached, John lit a cigarette so that it would look like he was actually doing something when they arrived.

"Yo, Bender!" Danny greeted him, as he and Scott ducked under the bleachers.

"We figured that when we didn't see you, that you must've ditched that lame-ass assembly too," Scott said.

John didn't know what 'lame-ass assembly' he was referring to, but he didn't feel the need to correct him.

"I can't fucking believe that they're actually paying some neo-maxi zoom dweebie to lecture us— _us_ , about drugs," Danny said incredulously.

Scott turned to Danny and gave him a look. " _Neo-maxi_ _what?_ What the _fuck_ are you on?"

Danny shrugged. "Not enough apparently. You got anything I can smoke, Bender?"

John searched his pockets, but only found a half-finished joint and some rolling papers. "That's all I've got on me, but there's more in my locker if you're looking to purchase."

"Yeah, I am," Danny said. "And I'm gonna blow my entire paycheck on drugs and booze this week. My mom can suck it if she thinks I'm putting any of it away for college."

John saw an opportunity, and even though he could feel a little piece of him die, he asked, "Do you mind if I crash at your place again tonight? I can bring your supply over then."

"Oh, um…" Danny scratched the back of his head like he was trying to remember something, but John thought it looked like he was trying to think up an excuse to say no.

"I'll even throw in a little extra." John hated that he'd been reduced to begging, but he'd already done a lot of couch-surfing that winter and he was starting to feel like he had worn out his welcome.

"I wish I could, but tonight's no good. I just remembered that my buddy Jake is coming over and we're going to a club. I kind of need it before then."

John brushed off his disappointment. "No problem, man. Just stop by my locker after eighth period and I'll hook you up."

"I wish I could get it now," Danny whined. "It'd help get me through English class next period."

"That's not going to happen with Vernon patrolling the halls," Scott pointed out.

"I know! It could be worse though. Just think about all those poor schmucks in that assembly, listening to how they should 'just say no' to drugs."

"We could liberate them, _and_ get rid of Vernon at the same time," Scott said.

"What did you have in mind?" John asked.

"I was thinking that we could call in a bomb-threat from the payphone at the 7-11," Scott said. "It has the added bonus of Slurpees."

"Or we could just pull the fire alarm ourselves and not have to walk a block and a half down the street," Danny replied. "It has the added bonus of being able to see Vernon's reaction."

"No way in fuck am I pulling a fire alarm," Scott said. "I heard it sprays you with permanent ink so that they know who did it."

Danny shook his head in disbelief. "Permanent ink…what the fuck are _you_ on?"

"I'm serious! Mike told me it happened to a guy he knew!" Scott exclaimed. "And if Vernon calls my house one more time, my old man is gonna take my car keys and shove them so far up my ass, I won't be driving for a week!"

"I'll do it," John offered.

"Fuck yeah!" Danny yelled, giving John a slap on the back.

"We'll be right behind you," Scott assured him.

They decided that the best fire alarm to pull would be the one right by the auditorium. John was okay with that. Everyone would know that he did it, and then all he'd have to do to get past Vernon was blend in with the crowd as they filed out the doors. John's friends watched him from around the corner, but as soon as he pulled the fire alarm, they vanished.

Pussies.

"John Bender!" Vernon shouted.

In retrospect, John probably shouldn't have stood around for so long, giving the other students the thumbs up as they walked past him. But he really enjoyed hearing them clap for him.

He ran from Vernon, strictly for the hell of it, and pushed his way through the cheering crowd. It was too late to avoid getting detention, but if he put on a good show, he could at least get something out of it.

"Don't think that you're going to get away with this, Bender! I've got your number!"

"If you wanted to go on a date with me, Dick, all you had to do was ask," John shouted back.

The crowd laughed.

"7 o'clock, tomorrow morning, John, you be here."

"You want me to wear something special? I've got a sexy little black dress you might like."

"I mean it! If your ass isn't in the library on time, you're going to regret it!"

"Promises, promises," John called back wistfully, and then disappeared into the crowd with a big smile on his face. That little exchange with Vernon had been well worth the inconvenience of Saturday detention.


	5. Part 5

There was a big party over on State Street on Friday night, but instead of going out and living it up, John was at home, dragging his feet. In the past, he never even stopped to think about it, he just went out and partied on the weekends, like he was on auto-pilot. He was John Bender, and that was what he did—he went to mansions, drank beer, picked up chicks, and sold weed to a bunch of rich assholes who thought it was fun to pretend to be him for a night. But it wasn't fun being him, it fucking sucked.

Those richies had no idea what his life was really like. All they had was some vague image cobbled together from movie stereotypes and the act he put on for them. What John actually was, was far less glamorous, and nothing at all like people thought, no matter how much _he_ pretended. In reality, he was a loser, a bum, a criminal, and a general waste of space. He was never going to amount to anything in life, and it was time that he acted like it. Pulling the fire alarm that afternoon had been a start, but his high from then had long since faded, and now he needed another hit.

John eyed Mark's keys on the coffee table. He could be gone and back before his brother even woke up. Not giving any more thought to his plan than that, John grabbed the keys and took off. He could practically feel the money from Danny burning a hole in his pocket.

It took him fifteen minutes of driving to find the shack, and another five of staring at the door before deciding to go in. The adrenaline rush he got was unbelievable, and it was making him a little cocky. He knocked expertly as he'd seen Mark and Ben do, and a burly man led him into a dimly lit, smoke-filled room. There was another man inside, sitting at a table, and a tough-looking woman standing beside him, arms crossed over her chest. John wondered in amusement if she was the muscle.

The man at the table, who was busy sorting little packets into piles, gave John a quick glance and sniffed. "What'd'ya want?" he asked in a bored tone.

"Whatever you're selling," John confidently answered.

The dealer eyed him skeptically. "I'm selling a lot of things, but not to kindergarteners. This ain't the playground. Milk money won't get you very far."

"I know," John said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills. His heart was racing with excitement. "That's why I brought this."

But the man at the table wasn't impressed. He took John's money and counted it. Then he reached in to his own pocket and pulled out a couple of joints.

John shook his head at the offer; he already had more weed than he could smoke. "Can't I get some heroin or something?"

"Like I said, milk money," the dealer countered, waving John's money in front of him.

"Forget it, then. Give it back," John said, grabbing for the money.

"Whoa!" the dealer exclaimed. "What the fuck are you doing? You think 'cuz I run my business out of a shack that this is some kind of amateur operation?"

"No, I—"

"Or _maybe_ ," the dealer said, standing up, "You think this is like K-mart, where you can just ask for your money back if you're not satisfied."

The panic of being out of his depth had started to set in, and John was ready to get the fuck out of there. He began backing toward the door. "That's not what I—" he stopped abruptly when he felt a gun between his shoulder blades.

"We got trouble here?" the burly man from earlier wanted to know.

"Uh, no. No trouble here," John nervously assured him, knowing that it probably wouldn't prevent him from getting shot. He was going to die that night, right there, in the old shack, and then his body would end up at the bottom of the lake. No one would ever know what had happened to him. They would all just think that he'd run away.

Out of all the hundreds of scenarios in which he'd pictured his death over the years, somehow, that had never been one of them.

The intimidating looking woman, who had been standing back and watching the whole thing unfold, picked that moment to intervene, "Relax, Jimmy, I'll take care of this one. He's kind of cute."

"Oh, I see how it is," the dealer said. "He's all yours." He made a motion with his hand, and John felt the gun come away from his back. The burly man then pushed him in the direction of the woman, who was walking towards him with a predatory look in her eyes.

"No refunds," the dealer called after him, laughing darkly.

The woman took his arm and pulled him out the door.

"So, how's this gonna work, Sweets? You want me to do you here or—"

She shoved him against the corrugated metal wall of the shack, and twisted his arm up behind him. "How old are you, kid?" she asked, sounding uncannily like a cop.

"Eighteen," he lied.

"And I'm the Queen of England."

"Sorry, I didn't recognize you, Your Highness."

The woman sighed and let him go. "You need to go home. You aren't going to find what you're looking for here."

"I'm not going to find it there either," he said under his breath.

She gave him a critical look. "Do you need a place to stay? There's a church a few blocks away that runs a—"

"No, I've got a bed."

She nodded. "Then I suggest you go back to it. I don't want to see you around here again. You got that?"

"Yeah, I got it."

***

John sat in the driveway, his forehead pressed against the steering wheel. He had fucked up that night, and had almost paid with his life. He couldn't even remember why going to the shack seemed like a good idea anymore. He should've just gone to the party, made out with some chick, and gotten another pretty thing for his box, like always. But, no, he had to up the ante, and seek out a bigger thrill just to prove that he could still feel. It frightened him, but he wasn't sure that he was going to be able to stop.

He quietly opened the front door to the house and hoped that he would be able to return the keys without Mark knowing that they were missing. Unfortunately, his brother was awake and waiting for him when he entered.

"I can't fucking believe that you fucking took my fucking car!" Mark shoved John hard enough to make him back against the couch. "Now I'm fucking late for fucking work! _Fuck_!"

"You're always late," John pointed out, as he pushed himself back up to face his brother.

"Maybe today I wanted to be early."

"Unlikely."

Mark pulled on his jacket and zipped it up. "I am so going to fucking murder you when I get home."

"Not if the old man gets to you first," John taunted.

Mark froze. "What do you mean?"

"You did a fantastic job mowing down the mailbox, dipshit."

Mark furrowed his brow and then smiled. "Heh, I got blitzed out of my fucking mind after work this morning. It's a fucking miracle that I even managed to find the right house."

"Yeah, well dear old dad isn't going to think it's so funny when he comes home. You'd better hope he's in a good mood." A well-timed car door closing outside punctuated John's statement.

"Pfft. Anyone could've knocked it over. He won't know it was me."

"Except that the muddy tracks through the lawn lead right up the driveway and there's a big fucking dent in the grill of your car," John said. "He's _going_ to know it was you. And then he's going to wonder why. What are you going to tell him? That you swerved to avoid hitting a squirrel?"

Mark jabbed his finger into John's chest, and sounded alarmingly sober as he issued his next warning, "I swear to god, if you say one fucking word to him about me, I will make good on all the threats I've ever thrown your way. And we've already established that no one would care if you turned up missing."

"Yeah? Go for it." It wouldn't be the first time that night that someone tried to kill him.

"I fucking mean it."

"So do I."

The front door swung open, interrupting their stand off, and their father's eyes landed on John first. "You wanna tell me why some asshole teacher of yours called me at work today?"

"Vernon? He's not so much a teacher as he is—"

"Did I ask for a history lesson?" He didn't wait for John to answer. "I had to fucking stop what I was doing and the foreman was pissed. I sat there on the phone for ten fucking minutes listening to that prick tell me about how you got yourself detention for some dumb shit like pulling a fire alarm."

Mark snorted in laughter.

"And you're just as much of a fuck-up," their father said, attention now turned on Mark. "How goddamn stupid do you have to be to miss the driveway and hit the mailbox?"

John smirked at Mark.

But Mark just shrugged. "You'd have to ask Johnny that. He's the one that took my car out for a joyride."

John remembered all too late that he was still holding Mark's keys in his right hand. A detail that didn't escape his father's notice.

"I'm late for work," Mark announced, grabbing his keys from John. "Have fun little bro," he sneered as he walked out the door.

"I…" _Fuck_.

"Guess you'll be spending tomorrow cleaning the basement."

'Cleaning' the basement in the Bender household meant being locked downstairs until his father decided that his punishment was up. It was usually all day and possibly a night. Very little cleaning ever actually went on.

"Sorry, but my schedule's full," John quipped, knowing that he was playing with fire.

His father raised an eyebrow at his response. "You wanna rethink that answer?"

He probably should have. But instead, John smugly replied, "I've got my detention, remember? But I can pencil you in for next weekend."

His father roughly grabbed his chin. "Keep it up, smart-mouth, and you're going to be in the hospital next weekend." He gave John a hard shove as he let go. "You _will_ fix the damage you caused. Is that understood?"

"Yeah," John had the good sense to mumble quietly.

His step-mom walked into the living room and glanced at the two men. "What did the Great Disappointment do this time?" she asked.

"Nothing that a little attitude adjustment didn't take care of," his father replied. "Is supper ready yet?"

Linda, who was just sitting down on the couch, paused. "I thought you went out after work."

"Just to get drinks. I told you that I was going to be hungry when I came home. Can't anybody in this house follow simple instructions?!"

"Fine!" Linda shouted, throwing her arms up in the air. "I'll go put a god-dammed pot pie in the oven for you! Happy?!"

"I shouldn't have had to ask in the first place!"

John slunk off to his room and sat down on his bed. It was still early, but he didn't have anything else to do that evening except wait to fall asleep. Out of habit, he reached over to turn on the radio, but then remembered that thanks to his brother, he no longer had a stereo. Defeated, John lay down and stared at the ceiling in silence.

It felt like he was slowly suffocating, and the harder he tried to take a breath, the more the air would just rush out of his lungs. It was as if something was pressing against his chest, and no matter what he tried, he couldn't shake it. Weed didn't fix it, sex didn't fix it, and parties didn't fix it. All the things that used to bring him joy just fell flat. There was only one thing left in the world that gave him comfort, and it was a single thought.

Shotgun to the head.

It was quick, painless, and they wouldn't be able to ignore it. The shot would bring them running, and it would leave behind a wicked mess. His step-mom would be horrified, and Mark would throw up from the sight of his brains oozing out of his head. And his father would know, deep down he would _know_ , that it was partly his fault. Yeah, a bullet to the head would do nicely, John decided.

And it was exactly what he was going do as soon as he could get his hands on the keys to the gun safe in the garage.


	6. Part 6

John's alarm woke him promptly at 6 o'clock on Saturday morning, exactly four and a half hours after he had fallen asleep. Despite having gone to bed early, he had lain awake for most of the night. His past had played out for him in slow motion, like some old rerun of _This Is Your Life_ , only more morbid, and with no one to tell him how much he had meant to them. He rolled back over and closed his eyes; he wasn't ready to face the day yet.

The third time that his alarm went off, John finally got up. It would be far worse to spend the day at home than it would be to spend it in the school library, he had decided. Even _if_ it meant having to deal with Richard Vernon, his third least favorite person on the planet.

There was a light frost covering the ground that morning, and John could see his breath as he stepped out of the house, but the wind was thankfully non-existent. He walked quickly to combat the chill, and stopped at the McDonald's on the way to the school. Four o'clock was long way away, and since he was too cool to brown-bag it, he needed something to hold him over until then. It wasn't until he opened his wallet that he recalled that his lesson the previous night had been an expensive one. As if he had needed another reminder of his stupidity.

John dug through his coat pockets for the loose change that he knew had to be in there somewhere. He pulled out a handful of old wrappers first, then a cassette tape, and then finally a few coins. It wasn't much, but it would buy him a cup of coffee.

As he waited to place his order, he searched for a familiar face behind the counter—one that might give him a free Egg McMuffin—but he didn't recognize anyone who was working. It was probably just as well. It would've taken him far too much effort to pull off charming and seductive that morning anyway.

John got his coffee and then moved over to the condiments station where he dumped three packets of sugar and two creams into his cup. While his stirred his pseudo-breakfast, he considered what the next nine hours would bring. If he was lucky, he would be the only student there and Vernon would leave him alone. Then he would be able to sleep for a few hours. He'd have to do something to get the library door to stay closed, but he'd thought up a solution to that problem weeks ago, and that day was as good as any to implement it. If he wasn't the only student in detention, then he supposed that it would be business as usual. Though, maybe he'd break the door anyway, just to mess with Vernon.

Back outside again, John sipped his coffee, savoring the warmth of the hot liquid as it spread through him. The caffeine did a good job of waking up his body, but it did nothing to clear away the fog from his brain. He wasn't surprised. It would've been a miracle if something as simple as coffee could have fixed him.

Nevertheless, John finished his drink as he walked along the sidewalk, and it wasn't long before Shermer High was in sight. He stopped before reaching the edge of the grounds and stuffed his empty stryofoam cup inside the mailbox of a house across from the school. No Indians would be crying on account of him that day, although a white, middle-class family might get marginally upset.

John didn't have any idea what time it was, but he was about eighty-six percent sure that it wasn't quite 7am yet. The only clock around was in the school, and he wasn't about to go inside and check it. The moment he entered those doors, he became a prisoner, and he wanted to enjoy his freedom while it lasted. He leaned up against a tree and lit a cigarette—it was time to do a little surveillance.

From his position across the street, he had a good view of both the front and the side of the school. Previous experience had taught him that the back entrance would be locked, so anyone entering the building would have to do so through one of the other doors. He decided that if he didn't see anyone arrive in the next fifteen minutes, he'd waltz into the school and make a fashionably late entrance, consequences be damned.

To his surprise, the first car that John saw turn in to the school was a white Chevette. He craned his neck to get a better view of the faculty parking lot off to the side of the building. How had he not noticed that _Vernon_ wasn't even there yet? Christ, he must have walked faster than he'd thought.

The Dean of Students got out of his car and closed the door behind him in a hurry, catching his coat in the process. John chuckled as he watched Vernon fumble with his keys, unlock the door, yank his coat out, and then slam the door shut. He then ran up the steps to the side entrance of the school before rushing immediately back down them again and re-locking his car door. John got the feeling that it wasn't actually him who was _early_ , but Vernonwho was _late_.

His hunch was confirmed moments later, when he saw a BMW pull into the bus loop and drop a student off. A station wagon appeared soon after that, and a second student got out, joining the club. So much for it being a quiet day, John mused. He finished his cigarette just as a third vehicle, a Ford Bronco, pulled up.

It was show time.

John crushed his cigarette butt under his boot and pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket. He didn't need them for their light-blocking properties, but slipping them on always helped him get into character. He shoved his hands into his pockets to complete the look and tried to appear nonchalant as he strode across the grass toward the front entrance. John Motherfuckin' Bender was on the scene, and those losers weren't going to know what had hit them.

***

Detention was not something that John was a stranger to. He had been stuck in that library more times than he could count over the past four years, and it had always been the same routine. Early on, he would show off in order to cement his reputation as the resident badass, and then the rest of the detention would be spent either keeping to himself, or trying to see how far he could push the others before he got a reaction out of them.

That Saturday was no exception, and John started the morning by playing the exact same role that he always played. The day proceeded as predicted, until about halfway through lunch, and then everything went horribly awry. John didn't know if it was from the lack of sleep that he had gotten, or because he had just stopped caring, but instead of being the one doing the breaking, _he_ was the one that snapped.

He banged his forehead against the wooden railing of the staircase out of frustration. For the second time in two days, he had turned into a complete fucking idiot. He'd always thought that when he finally lost it, he would cut loose on whatever or whoever was around, kill a guy, and then end up in jail until he was fifty. It never occurred to him that he would actually implode in on himself and let his guard down in front of a bunch of strangers instead. What the hell had possessed him to act out that scene from home anyway?

He knew exactly what. It was that stupid wrestler's big mouth. He couldn't believe that he had actually let the jock get under his skin like that, but John couldn't help it. The way that asshole talked reminded him of Mark. Saying things like it wouldn't matter if he disappeared, and then talking about the big party that night as if John wouldn't know about such things. Well, newsflash, he _made_ those fucking parties! But he guessed no one ever mentioned that.

The worst part was that the one time in his life that he'd actually been honest, no one had believed him! Did they think he was making that shit with his father up? Hell, showing them his scar probably hadn't even convinced them. They probably all thought that he had caught it on a fence or something. Well, fine, fuck them! He was going to stay on the staircase for the rest of the day. Then maybe he'd do a swan dive over the railing, right at four o'clock, just to give them all a little something to remember him by.

John sat alone, chewing on his thoughts for almost a good fifteen minutes before he heard someone climbing the stairs. He figured Sporto's conscience had finally kicked in and he was coming to tell him how soooo sorry he was, blah, blah, blah. John scowled at the thought. He didn't need—and he certainly didn't _want_ —his fucking pity.

The wrestler wordlessly joined him on the landing, but John continued to stare straight ahead defiantly. He didn't want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence.

"How long are you going to stay up here?" a very non-masculine voice asked.

"Until the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the four," John replied, slipping back into his smartass persona.

"That's too bad."

He whipped his head around and looked up at the redhead in surprise. "Why?"

"You were the entertaining one," she replied. "Now I'm going to be bored for the rest of the afternoon."

"You could stay up here," he said, sounding more desperate than he meant to.

"I could," she conceded. " _Or_ you could come back downstairs."

Yeah, he wouldn't want to stay up there with him either. "I'll think about it," he said brusquely.

She turned toward the stairs, but then stopped and said softly, "Andy shouldn't have said those things to you. I made sure he knows that."

Oh great, now he had Rapunzel fighting his battles for him. "Yeah, well, let me know when he wants to kiss and make up, and I'll come rushing right down there, lips puckered," he said, voice dripping with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

He expected her to leave, since she had already said what was on her mind, but for some reason she sat down next to him instead. Her actions were baffling, and John racked his brain to come up with an explanation. The only thing that even remotely made sense was that she was hoping that he was going to make some kind of move on her. He had probably gotten her all hot and wet with his dirty talk earlier, and now she was waiting for him finish the deed. Too bad for her that he wasn't in the mood to feel her up over—or under—anything.

He was prepared to reject her. He wasn't prepared for what came next.

"You never told me your name."

Dumbstruck though he was, a single word managed to escape his lips.

"John?" She sounded surprised, as if she had been expecting him to be named Axel, or Bruiser, or Randy.

"It's a family name," he replied, mimicking her response from before.

"No," she said, shaking her head slowly, "It's a bald man's name."

He stared at her with a mixture of disbelief and awe. Was she actually feeding his bullshit back to him?

She continued, "See, I don't know if you know this, but John is what prostitutes call their clients. So, you're going to grow up, go bald, and then be destined to have to pay for sex for the rest of your life."

John finally cracked a smile. "Is that right?"

"Uh-huh," she said, and then added, "It's also the name of a toilet."

He laughed, and she looked extremely pleased with herself. It was at that point that he made a decision. "Do you want to get out of here for a while?" he asked.

"And go where?"

"My locker."

She raised her eyebrow and asked skeptically, "Why, what's in your locker?"

"Something that promises to make the rest of the afternoon a little more enjoyable," he told her.

"What about Vernon?" she asked.

"I don't think that he'd make for an enjoyable afternoon, do you?"

She gave him a look. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, and all we have to do is wait for him to leave his office," John said. He had a handle on all of Vernon's habits by now. That man couldn't sit still for more than an hour at a time before he was up and roaming the halls.

"I don't know…"

"Trust me, it'll be fine."

She chewed on her bottom lip, and John held his breath as she searched his face for any hint of deception. Or maybe she was trying to determine if he was setting her up somehow to fall. Either way, for one heart-crushing minute, he didn't think that she was going to give him a chance. Then she spoke.

"Alright, but I'd better not get caught."

"You won't," he promised.

And he didn't let her down.

***

John rolled the diamond stud back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. He was still trying to process what had happened in detention that afternoon, and the only thing keeping him from believing that the whole day had been a dream was the earring that he held in his hand. John watched the diamond sparkle as it caught the light. It was his best souvenir yet.

Without thinking, he reached for the shoebox under his bed. He lifted the lid and was about to toss the earring inside when he suddenly realized what he was doing. _She_ had given it to him—Claire, the 'not- _that_ -pristine' redhead with the family name. She had given it to him, and he _hadn't even had to ask_.

He wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but he knew enough to understand that her earring was the first item in his collection that actually wasn't meaningless. It didn't belong amongst all the faceless, nameless junk that he had acquired. He replaced the earring in his earlobe and then shoved the box back out of sight.

There was a shouting match going on in the other room, and John didn't want to ruin his good mood by walking in on a fight, or by having a fight walk in on him, so he grabbed his coat and hopped out the window. On his way down the driveway, he stopped to check if Mark's car was unlocked. It was, so he helped himself to a handful of change and an open pack of cigarettes. Then he headed for the mall.

The plan was to hang in the arcade for a while and burn through every stolen quarter that he had in his pocket. Then maybe he'd go to the party at the mansion and start making back the money that he had lost the night before. But first, he was going to head to the food court to satisfy his craving for a hot pretzel.

As he was standing in line, studying the menu board, he felt someone came up along side him

"Hi, John."

Shit. He'd forgotten that there was a reason that he had been avoiding the mall. "Hey."

Lori-not-Jen leaned in close and confided in him, "Mary Ann was furious with me for pulling that little stunt last week."

"Who?" Honestly, he was terrible with names.

"You know, my 'friend' that works at The Limited?"

"Right."

"Apparently we made a lot of noise or something, I dunno. Anyway, I think she's just jealous because Chad left her. He wanted to get back with me after that, can you believe it?"

"No," he answered, not really paying attention to what she was saying. He was more interested in figuring out if he could buy a drink and still have enough left over to play Galaga for a couple of hours.

"Well, I turned him down," she said, pausing to watch him count his change. "You know, if you want to get something, you can come over to the Orange Julius. I'll give you a discount."

"Nah, it's fine."

"Alright, well anyway, I just came over here to tell you that I get off in an hour. The rest of my family's away for the weekend, so if you want to come back to my place, we can finish what we started in the fitting room."

"Oh."

"So, if you're interested, meet me back here, okay?"

"Yeah."

John bought his pretzel and soda, and then sat down on the edge of the fountain in the center of the food court. He watched the crowds of smiling, laughing people pass by as he ate. Some paused just long enough to toss coins in the water before moving on. He recognized a lot of faces from school, which was normal for a Saturday night, but because he was quiet and wasn't making a scene, none of them noticed him.

After he finished his pretzel, John thumbed through his wallet. It was full of lies, broken promises, and girls that thought he was only good for one thing. Two, if he counted drugs. It was always about what _he_ could give _them_.

He looked over at Lori-not-Jen from across the food court, and watched her work while he considered what to do. If she knew who he really was, she wouldn't want him. She only liked the _idea_ of him. She liked what he did for her. She wouldn't be afraid to walk down the hall at school with him—she'd flaunt him. And somehow that was worse.

That morning, the thought of someone using him wouldn't have bothered him, but John had started to realize something very important—there might actually be a light at the end of the tunnel. Things didn't necessarily have to be the way they were just because that was the way they had always been. He didn't have to be _that guy_.

He didn't have to end up like his brother.

John had been searching for something different for a long time, but it had taken Claire to finally show him that it actually existed. She hadn't come to him on the stairs because she had been trying to make someone jealous. She hadn't kissed him because she had wanted to show off in front of her friends. She did those things because she _wanted_ to. She had seen his scars and had liked him _even more_ at the end of the day.

He still wasn't sure that he believed in the whole 'one guy, one girl' thing, but maybe Claire would manage to convince him of it one day. Or maybe it would be someone else, ten years down the road. He didn't know. The only thing he was certain of was that he wasn't going to be convinced by some mallrat who only wanted him for his dick.

He took one last look down at Lori-not-Jen, slid her picture out of his wallet, and then threw it in the fountain behind him. He was done considering.

***

In bed that night, John attempted to come up with another round of gruesome ways to meet his untimely demise, but failed miserably. The harder he tried to focus, the more his thoughts kept drifting to Claire, until finally she was the only thing left in his mind. He could still feel the spot on his neck where she had tenderly pressed her lips and somehow managed the impossible. With one simple kiss, she had breathed life back into him.

It was the first time in years that John could remember falling asleep without feeling like he wanted to die.

 

~The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few footnotes…
> 
> 1\. The line about John not making an Indian cry is a reference to a pretty famous anti-littering PSA from the 70s.
> 
> 2\. The line about John's scar is a nod to an article I read where John Hughes and Judd Nelson were discussing Bender's backstory. Judd was convinced that Bender was telling the truth about the cigar, but John happened to think that he'd probably just caught it on a fence and made the story up.
> 
> 3\. That scene in detention is something I've wanted to explore for a while now. It always seemed jarring that in the movie it goes from Bender being upset and going off to sulk, to Vernon spilling his coffee, and then back to the library where Bender is fine again and has rejoined the group. All in a matter of two minutes? What the heck happened in between? Am I over thinking this? (probably).


End file.
